Forsaken
by Mikiya2200
Summary: Dean Winchester didn’t do panic and he sure as hell wouldn’t be yelling Bobby’s name in the middle of the night at the top of his lungs if Sam wasn’t about to meet his Maker -- Part 1 in the Forsaken-AU
1. Taking off the mask

**A/N: **I wasn't really sure if I wanted to post this, basically it is kind of an experiment with an idea that has been forming over the last few days while chatting with my best friend about some stuff. Consider this a few "slice of life"-bits in the "_Forsaken_-AU" that popped up in my head the other day. I don't want to spoil the original idea of this and so I can't really say more than this. Read it, let me know what you think.

Once again I want to include a virtual hug for my speedy speed-beta **Twinny **whose sharp eyes spotted sooo many mistakes and saved you from countless violations against certain rules (I'm thinking about commas here). Thanks a LOT!

**Disclaimer**: Don't own them, don't want them, they'd only give me a headache.

**Timeline:** Set somewhere in the 2nd season, definitely _after _"Born under a bad sign".

Dedicated to **Kochan**, happy now? ;)

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**_Taking off the mask_**

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_"Family don't end with blood, boy."_

Bobby Singer, 'No Rest for the Wicked'

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"Bobby!"

Waking up in the middle of the night to his name being called outside the house loud enough to wake the dead, wasn't exactly his idea of a restful sleep. Neither would he ever have considered stumbling out of bed and doing his best not to trip while hurrying down the stairs, a well-thought reaction to that call in their line of work. But apparently, being the emergency contact of "the boys" did rob one of some privileges. Like a decent night-sleep.

"BOBBY, HELP!!"

Dean sounded desperate, which already told him that whatever had happened must have jumped Sam or flung him all over the place or done whatever serious number one could come up with on him. Dean Winchester didn't do panic and he sure as hell wouldn't be yelling Bobby's name _in the middle of the night_ at the top of his lungs if Sam wasn't about to meet his Maker. Pushing the alarming conclusion aside, he concentrated on waking up enough to be of use and continued down the stairs, pausing only when his hunter instincts finally joined the land of the living and had him contemplate the possibility that it could very well be a trick.

"Bobby, please, _HELP_!"

The hunter in him came up with at least ten different supernatural creatures who could mimic loved ones and would try and lure you out of the house to feed on you, play tricks on your senses or basically just kill you for the fun of it. The other half of him, the one which would drive across the country to pick up something they needed for one of their rituals, wanted to get out there, do what he could to help his boys and make sure they were safe. 'Dean' was closer now and as the older hunter stood at his door, listening into the darkness, he could make out the creak of the Impala's passenger door. If this was a fake, they surely went out of their way---

A soft cry of pain cut through the night and Bobby had the door open in less than a second. He knew that voice and _screw_ caution, he was going out there, _now_, consequences (or him) be damned.

"Sam? Dean?"

The Impala was parked in front of his house, its motor still running, grumbling softly in the background. The door of the passenger side was open and the familiar form of Dean was leaning into the car, hovering over something as he mumbled under his breath. Bobby felt his heartbeat quicken when another pained groan drifted across his front garden and Dean slowly pulled familiar boots out of the car. All thoughts of possible imposters forgotten, the seasoned hunter broke into a jog as he approached the car, trying to get a look at what he just _knew_ had to be Sam. Dean's body was obscuring most of him and what little he could see of the kid, was wrapped in an old, washed-out blanket but the weak, breathless sounds of pain had his stomach drop as they confirmed that the youngest Winchester had to be injured.

"What happened?"

He knew better than to interfere before Dean had acknowledged his presence. There was no need for a repetition of the Ohio incident; he had learned _that_ lesson the hard way. So he simply watched as a pale, lax hand appeared in his view. He had to fight hard to keep his distance as it dangled limply out of the car, twitching slightly when whatever Dean was doing to him had Sam moan softly.

"'m sorry, Sammy, we have to move you, get you inside… C'mon, work with me here, bro, sit up…"

Sam groaned again, this time in protest but he didn't seem to be able to resist his brother's manhandling, and Bobby tensed when suddenly a familiar mop of dark, tousled hair appeared, framing a decidedly too-pale face. Glassy eyes scanned the car for a moment and then wandered listlessly across the frame, coming to rest on the open door before the head seemed to grow too heavy and fell back against the headrest.

"Oh gaaawd--- h'ts…"

Bobby had to lean forward to be able to hear Sam's voice at all and the pain lacing it had him wince in sympathy. He was about to ask just what had happened when Dean moved into Sam's line of sight, trying to catch his attention. "Sam, hey, Sammy, I know it hurts, hang on, okay? Gotta get you inside---"

He turned suddenly, mouth open as he yelled again, "BOBBY---Whoa!" Wide eyes came to rest on the older hunter's face and Bobby almost took a step back at the wild look in them. Before he could react or even try to read the stare, Dean had reached for where his gun would be tucked into the back of his jeans, eyes going even wider before his body finally relaxed fractionally.

"Help me, we gotta get him inside…" He turned back, leaving him to wonder just _what_ had apparently got the better of them and how much of that the older Winchester was blaming himself for.

"Good to see you too, Dean…" he growled softly but was already moving to his side, trying to get a hold of Sam's right arm as Dean was moving the other across his shoulders. From this close he could hear Sam's wheezing breath, and he studied the pale face for a moment, taking in the tired grimace.

"What happened?"

He wasn't quite sure whom of the two he had addressed with this question and wasn't overly surprised when one of them couldn't and the other wouldn't answer him. Sam continued to blink lazily and stared groggily at him; a strained groan was everything he managed for his part as he was moved and Bobby hurried to get a hold of the limp body, not sure where he could touch without hurting him even more.

Dean sensed his reluctance and met his gaze over the dark head, eyes guarded though there was still _something_ flashing through them, which was gone before he could read it. "Werewolf…" he ground out between clenched teeth, indicating the blanket-covered area of Sam's chest with his free hand. "It got to him before I could stop it, tore him open l-like--- I--- Bobby, it was awful…"

Dean winced and broke off, clearing his throat before he moved forward again, carefully pulling his brother's weight out of the car. Bobby was left to catch Sam's flailing arm as the younger hunter feebly tried to get a hold of something to keep himself upright.

"Easy there, son…"

The second they moved him, the kid became agitated, a low, agonized moan shuddering through his frame. He grimaced with pain, blinking repeatedly against tears as he pawed weakly at Dean's shoulder, trying without success to get away from him. It was obvious that he was barely clinging to consciousness and Bobby found himself praying to whatever entity was watching that he would just pass out to make it easier for all of them. This, of course, didn't happen since the stubborn 'idjit' of a Winchester fought tooth and nail to stay with them. He even managed to rasp a breathless, "Ssstopplease…", which had Dean flinch violently and close his eyes briefly against what Bobby suspected were tears of his own.

"Sammy, we gotta move, get you inside, okay? Come on, just a few more steps, then we get you settled…" It was as close to begging as Dean Winchester ever got, and it had the desired effect, Sam's eyes cleared a little and he rested them on his brother's face, studying it for a moment before he gave a tiny nod, wheezing in as deep a breath as he could manage.

"'kayyy…"

Dean visibly forced himself to twist his lips into a appreciative smile and stopped briefly to run a hand across Sam's sweaty brow in a rare gesture of affection, whispering softly, "That's my boy…"

Despite the pain he was in, Sam seemed to sense just how freaked out his brother really was, reminding Bobby once again how in tune his--- the boys could be (on occasion), and he watched how tired eyes flickered towards him, the hint of a teasing smile starting to pull at pale lips. "You're freaking Bobby out…"

Dean instantly pulled his hand back and threw a quick glance at him, fighting hard to keep the smile on his face. "He is not the one bleeding all over the upholstery, Sam… Come on, let's get you inside."

Sam's eyes stayed on Bobby's face, and he opened his mouth to say something but whatever it was got lost in a strained whimper when Dean carefully pulled him all the way out of the car and upright. Bobby hurried to guide Sam's other arm across his shoulders, then leaned slightly into their charge, wincing when Sam's breathing hitched and his head rolled toward him. The rest of his body was limp; he never even attempted to get his feet under him, just hung between them, doing his best to keep breathing through the pain.

"That's it, Sammy, hold on, come on, just a few steps…"

Dean kept talking, but then, he always was, especially when the kid was injured. The older hunter didn't have the time to listen to him and he doubted Sam was either; it seemed to take all his concentration to stay with them. They were moving him away from the car when the blanket slipped and then there was blood, a lot of blood, all over Sam. Bobby couldn't help but stare at Sam's chest, cringing in sympathy 'cause that had to hurt like a bitch. It looked bad, really bad, as if he had gone up against Freddy Kruger and lost, big time. There wasn't an inch on his chest that had not been slashed open or wasn't covered in blood. The smell was so overwhelming that he needed to turn his head in order to take a deep breath of fresh air.

Sam suddenly sagged heavily against the seasoned hunter, his breath hot against his ear as he groaned in pain and tried to twist away from it. Bobby turned just in time to see Dean recoil from the wounds as if he had been punched in the face. A string of curses escaped his lips when the elder Winchester almost lost his grip on Sam, which had the kid give a strange gurgle of protest. Since he was unable to catch himself, their charge fell even heavier into the supporting arms, and it became a real struggle to keep him upright.

"Dammit _Dean_, snap out of it!"

He couldn't tell if he had been heard. Dean didn't move; he seemed to be frozen to the spot, his eyes glued to Sam's ravaged chest. Bobby understood that the sight had to be at least twice as shocking for the older Winchester as it had been for him but if John's eldest wasn't going to get a grip on himself soon, _he_ would be dropping the poor guy because, damn, that kid was _heavy_. "Dean!"

Dean's head snapped up and in return Bobby received a weird glance which had the hair on the back of his neck stand up; there was something lingering in those once familiar eyes, which was just _wrong_. He made a mental note to take that stubborn pighead off those shoulders to examine it closely but right now they needed to get the kid inside and the horrific wounds patched up ASAP, or he was going to bleed out on them. And that was something he'd rather _not_ see happening, especially not on his porch.

He didn't even try to keep the annoyance out of his eyes when he glared at Dean, jerking his head towards Sam's still sagging form as he growled, "Gimme a hand with him, he ain't getting lighter, ya'know?"

Whatever had been clouding Dean's eyes, suddenly cleared, and he blinked at him before looking back at Sam. "Jeez--- Come on, Sam let's get moving…" he mumbled softly into his brother's neck before he leaned into him and reestablished his hold, carefully taking some of the limp weight off Bobby's shoulders.

They continued their slow shuffle towards the porch, stopping only once when Sam made some gagging noises at the back of his throat. Thankfully the deep breaths he managed to wheeze in seemed to settle his stomach; the older hunter wasn't really looking forward to a live-demonstration of Sam literally "puking his guts out". By the time they had reached the porch, Sam had lost what little he had managed to keep of his consciousness and was no longer groaning in pain at every jarring step. Dean was growing increasingly nervous at the lack of response but it did enable them to quicken their pace. They had Sam inside and stretched out on top of Bobby's guest bed only a few moments later.

Bobby was halfway out of the room to gather his first aid kit when a gloomy feeling froze him in his steps, a whisper at the back of his mind, which drew his gaze to the foot of the bed where Dean was standing rigidly, eyes fixed on the mess that was Sam's chest. Something about his posture was off; again, his eyes were just _wrong_, and the way he was not getting to his brother's side to fuzz about him like he would usually do, was starting to make all kinds of alarm bells ring inside the hunter's head. This wasn't guilt; this wasn't Dean beating himself up because he let something happen to his brother or because he wasn't fast enough or whatever; this was something completely different. More serious.

Dangerous.

He didn't miss a beat as he turned and walked back toward the bed, keeping an eye on the still figure at the foot of the bed. Whatever this was about, there were certain basics he could cover to solve 'this'; and the first step of his course of action had to be separation. He needed to get Sam out of the line of whatever; the kid was in no condition to do anything. He sat down on the bed next to Sam's hip and leaned over his chest, reaching across him to pull one of his limp hands into his lap to check his pulse. Out of the corner of his eyes he watched Dean attentively as he slowly put himself into Dean's line of sight, blocking Sam from him, to watch his reaction.

Which certainly was a lot less violent than he would have expected, because Dean didn't even blink.

"Dean, get me the kit and a few towels from the kitchen, would 'ya?"

Dean didn't move.

But Sam did. A hoarse groan had both their heads turn toward the injured man, and they watched as he slowly blinked tired eyes open and let them wander lazily across the room. When they met Dean's still form, Sam stared hard at him for a long moment before his brows finally formed into the ghost of a frown. "D'n? Wha' hpnd?"

Dean didn't answer but continued to stare, and Sam's frown became more pronounced, soon joined by a puzzled expression when his eyes followed Dean's gaze and looked at his chest in confusion. "Wha' hapd?" he asked again, fighting hard against heavy lids, and Bobby took that as a cue to lean into his line of sight, regarding the weak man with a questioning look.

"You tell me, son…"

Sam had some trouble focusing on his face but a small smile crept onto his lips when he finally recognized him. "Hey Bobby…"

"Sam, how are you feeling?" He kept his tone deliberately light but dammit, even with his brain working at barely a quarter of its usual capacity, the kid looked right through him, read the hidden worry in his eyes correctly. Before he could move to block his brother from his view, Sam's eyes sought out his brother's face, scanning it for a moment before they suddenly grew incredibly huge and Sam froze.

"Oh my god…"

Bobby watched in confusion how the rest of Sam's color fled his face and he turned large, _frightened?_ eyes on him. The younger man's voice was barely audible, stumbling over the words as he rasped quietly, "Bobby, we need to talk."

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	2. At last I see

**AN: **I'm quoting Bobby here when I say: Damn those Winchesters, damn them all!! Something happened that I never saw coming, the guys (well, mainly Dean) took the plot-line and ran away with it, forcing me to change it. I am deeply sorry, Ko-chan, I know this is not what you wanted to read.

Thanks to **Twinny**, you have no idea what grammatical mistakes she saved you from this time, sometimes I get the feeling that the more I write the sloppier I get... Thank you for cleaning up my mess! +big hug+

Let me know what you think...

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At last I see

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"_Idjits."_

Bobby Singer, pretty much every episode

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In the end it turned out that even a stubborn Winchester didn't stand a chance when it came to the after-effects of blood loss. Sam's "need to talk" quickly turned into the realization "I don't feel so good" and "please don't let him leave". Bobby could tell that the kid was determined to stay with them, exhausted eyes desperately locking on the dark shape at the foot of the bed, but he was fighting a losing battle; by the time Bobby was finished checking the wounds and had decided which one of them needed stitching, Sam's eyes no longer popped back open and his consciousness seemed at least a mile away. As much as he wanted – _needed_ to know what had happened, it was obvious that he would have to wait until his patient could stay awake long enough to form a complete sentence.

Of course he would have been just as happy with asking all those questions burning at the tip of his tongue to the other half of the dynamic duo but that would have been quite an accomplishment since Dean was _gone_. He had not really noticed how or when the other hunter had sneaked out of the room but the sound of the doors on the Impala creaking shut and the throaty grumble of the motor as the car slowly left the junkyard had not escaped his attention.

_What the hell?_

To say that Bobby was mildly irritated would have been the understatement of the century, Dean's silent demeanour and, most of all, him leaving Sam's side, his _injured_ brother when normally he would have been hovering over him like the proverbial mother hen (in an utterly _manly_ way, mind you) was just wrong. And he had a growing suspicion that whatever had happened was not going to just 'get away', the great _Winchester all-purpose solution_ wouldn't fix this. And with one of them out for the count and the other doing his best to avoid the situation, it would be left to him to knock some sense back into those damn chuckleheads.

But first things first, Sam was still bleeding on his spare bed, and _that_ was a problem he could fix. The kid had been lucky although his chest did look as if someone had set a rabid tiger on him, most of the wounds were scratches, fairly deep ones but none of them deep enough to nick internal organ or major blood vessels. Three of the larger ones required stitches and while he was threading the needle in and out, he couldn't help but wonder when it had been the last time he had had to patch someone up. John had usually tended to his wounds himself and if the boys had got hurt bad enough, they had always patched each other up, none had ever asked for his help. And he couldn't really say that that was something he had been missing.

After he was finished tending to his wounds he watched Sam for a moment, taking in the tired features and pale complexion. Just what exactly had the kid been through? He was just about to pack his stuff when the phone rang and since he didn't want to disturb Sam's rest, Bobby decided to take the call in the kitchen and left the room. He didn't need a caller-ID to know who was on the line, and he was right.

"How is he?" Dean's voice was low and so soft he barely heard it over the rumbling of the car. Still fleeing then.

Bobby's first reaction was to growl at him, rip him a new one for leaving his brother's side and taking off without so much as an explanation but something in the tired voice and the wide eyes he had seen earlier, had him give a small sigh instead. "Sleeping... patched him up... that thing sure did a number on him."

A small, relieved sigh ghosted across the line and Bobby gave a silent one of his own. Leaning back against the freezer as he tucked the earpiece in between his ear and his shoulder, he started to wash his hands.

"How bad is it?"

"Coulda' been a lot worse if you ask me, lots of scratches and bruises, had to stitch some of 'em. He should be fine." A moment of silence, then he ventured on, "What happened?"

Dean must have known he would ask this particular question and yet, he seemed to be surprised to hear it and took a long moment sort out his words. "I told you, Bobby, there was a w-werewolf, and it got to him before I could…" Now couldn't he just picture him squirming in his seat as that 'idjit' tried to avoid the subject?

"Yeah, I can see that but that's not what I meant; and you know it. What is wrong with you?" Maybe he was getting a little angry but he couldn't help himself. He half expected Dean to hang up on him and take the easy way out but after a long moment of silence, Dean took a deep breath. The voice that could be heard over the line sounded nothing like the man Bobby knew.

"Bobby, I uh… I'm sorry for taking off like this but… there—there was… I… uhm, something happened…" The strange feeling turned up a notch, and he could literally feel his insides twist. Dean started to say something but somehow the words wouldn't come. "Bobby, I… uhm…"

"Dean, did _you_ do that to him?"

There, he had said it, voiced the fear that had been gnawing at his guts ever sine he had seen the shocked expression on Dean's face. And he didn't really want to know the answer. He wanted Dean to laugh at him in disbelief, to call him crazy for even asking that kind of question, to grow angry at him, anything _but_ what actually came out of the other hunter's mouth after too long a pause.

"I don't know."

And dammit, that boy sounded so small and scared that he almost didn't recognize him.

"Dean…"

It wasn't the first time that some supernatural creature had got the better of one of the boys, using him to draw on suppressed feelings for the other and twist them to hurt him in some way. Both of them carried around a whole load of angry, hurtful, conflicting emotions for the other one; and, even on a good day the boys were about as far away from relaxed and completely comfortable with each other as he was from a slim ballet dancer in a pink tutu. It was the reason most hunters he knew didn't hunt in pairs but had become loners. In their line of work you usually learned the hard way that no one would have your back better than yourself.

He knew about the incident in the mental hospital when Sam had taken the sawed off against Dean and had shot him because the ghost of a psychotic doctor had wanted to _make it all better_. He had seen a Sam who had taken a severe beating at the hands of a shapeshifter wearing his brother's face and would unconsciously flinch away from Dean for a few days. The point was that you learned to deal with it and get over it or it would haunt you for the rest of your life. But naturally, the Winchesters never did anything the easy way.

"Look, Bobby, there's something you don't know, and we wanted to tell you but—but we didn't know how... I—uhm, it was so stupid, I… we—"

Crap, he had almost forgotten who it was he was talking to.

"Get back here."

Why did it always have to be twice as hard with those boys as it was with every other human being?

"Bobby, you don't understand. I can't, Sam—I don't want to—"

Oh no, you don't…

"Get your ass back here, NOW!"

The receiver met the phone in the same instant his fist came down on the counter, only barely missing the plates of his meal. He hadn't really meant to snap at him like that but… That 'idjit', that stupid sonofabitch, how could he--- how could they not have told him something like that? He was breathing hard for a long moment, staring at the dishes without really seeing them.

Damn those Winchesters, damn them all!

It took more than a deep breath to calm down, and he slowly went to pick up some spare clothes the boys were keeping at his house for situations like these. A tattered, washed-out hoodie and a one-size-fits-all-dumbheads sweatpants looked as if it had been washed not too long ago, then he snatched a bottle of water from his freezer and the last of his painkillers before he went back into the guest-room to check on his patient.

Sam was still asleep, spread out on his back. His face was turned away from the door and buried half-way into the pillow. His left hand twitched ever so slightly, and a fine sheen of sweat covered flushed cheeks and what Bobby could see of his chest, telling him the kid was running a light fever. A quick check of the wounds confirmed that it wasn't an infection but exhaustion and blood loss which were finally taking a toll on the injured body. Sam groaned softly when he brushed sweaty bangs away from his forehead to check his temperature but then settled back into the covers.

Bobby dropped the shirt and pants on the foot of the bed, put the water and the pills on the nightstand and sat down into the chair beside the bed. There was nothing left for him to do but keep an eye on his patient and wait for the other jerk to get his head out of his ass and get back home; and ideally, hold still while he kicked said ass.

"He comn' ba'k?"

Bobby actually started at the soft voice and frowned, he hadn't even seen Sam's lips move. The younger Winchester still had his eyes closed and his head turned away from him but apparently he had sensed him, even through his fever-clouded haze, however the boy was doing it.

"I hope so."

He fondly studied Sam for a moment, unable to hide a small smile as Sam slowly blinked open one eye and gazed about the room blearily before he moved his head ever so slightly in his direction. The movement alone seemed to sap his energy, and he just stared tiredly at him before the eye drifted close. "Sam?"

The long drawn-out answering sigh held a questioning note, and it seemed to be all Sam was capable of at the moment. Bobby hesitated for an instant, he probably should just let him sleep and rest. But he needed some answers. "Sam, you mind telling me why he left in the first place? What happened out there?"

He wasn't sure if Sam hadn't just passed out again when the younger man didn't answer for a longer period of time but then his brow furrowed slightly. "Bobby… there's sm'thing you donnow…" His voice was low, a little scratchy and he had to really concentrate to make out the words.

"Yeah, I've heard that one before… Sam, what happened?"

The eye slowly opened and stared at him. Bobby could tell he was fighting with himself, debating whether or not he should tell him something, so he kept quiet, just looking back at him; trying to force the kid to do something never worked. Sam finally gave a sigh and turned a little, leaning back against his pillow and trying to find a comfortable position. "'t was n'accident … were hunt'n sm'thing; thought t'was a bl'k dog… was wr'ng…" He blinked a few times as if he was struggling to focus but then he simply gave up and closed his eyes, taking a deep, shuddering breath.

"Shuldn't tellya, he'll be 'ngry with me…"

Bobby had a pretty good idea where this was going, and he was almost loathe to hear more, found himself silently begging for a moment that Sam would just fall asleep and he wouldn't hear it, could go on pretending that nothing had happened.

"'was a werewolf."

If possible Sam's voice was even fainter than before, heavy with something he couldn't quite grasp.

And the last part of the puzzle clicked into place; a horrid, awful picture he really, _really_ didn't want to look at.

But he had to make sure; he wasn't ever going to make that mistake again.

"It got to him, didn't it?"

Sam's face scrunched up and he groaned softly as if he was in pain. His fists clenched slightly at his sides and his whole body tensed. It looked like he was trying to squirm away from him, from reality, the truth. His voice couldn't keep up with the anguish Bobby could literally see pouring off of him, and it broke on the words as Sam fought to get them across his lips.

"He asked me--- to shoot—to shoot him… I couldn't do it… just--- just couldn't do it, Bobby…" His breath hitched deep in his throat and he groaned miserably as he fought in vain against tears he couldn't control. "He didn't… doesn't want to--- to live like—that… I couldn't—he almost—" Sam broke off, finally rolled his head toward him, turning wide, fevered eyes on him which burned bright with fear and confusion and a pain that had nothing to do with his wounds. He looked as lost and wounded as he had ever seen him; and the boys had stayed at his house for weeks after John had died.

It broke his heart.

"Dammit, Sam, why didn't you tell me?" He stood up from the chair and sat down on the bed next to the trembling young man, laying a comforting hand on his shoulder. Sam blinked at him tiredly and tried to force his tears back, fought visibly to get himself together but failed miserably.

"'m sorry… Bobby, I really am… he--- we wanted to make sure… that he--- had really--- really--- I'm so sorry, Bobby, I wouldn't… he wouldn't…." Sam was openly crying then, the fever and fatigue having finally burned away the last reserves of strength and self-control. He tried to turn away from him, to hide his tears and frustration but his body wouldn't cooperate and Bobby took that as a sign to squeeze his shoulder reassuringly.

"Sam, calm down, we're going to work something out, I'll help you with the research, okay? You get some sleep now, and I'll see what I can find about this in my books." It took his words some time to finally reach Sam's exhausted mind but they had the desired effect, the younger man thought about them for a moment and then nodded slowly, relaxing back into the mattress. The kid was fading fast and he sat back for a moment, watching how Sam's breathing slowly evened out and his limbs relaxed.

But there was still one thing he needed to know.

"So he was the one who attacked you tonight?"

Sam visibly pulled himself together, forcing his eyes open to blink blurrily at him before he shook his head slightly and mumbled, with the slightest of smiles tugging at his pale lips, "No, Bobby, he didn't, he saved my life."

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The trail was easy enough to follow, the stench of blood hung so heavily in the air that he could hardly ignore it. It sang to him, like it always did, speaking of life, youth, power, a vibrant energy, so sweet and promising that he could almost taste it on his tongue. He didn't need to concentrate, he didn't even have to memorize the scent, it stood out to him so strongly over the different smells of the night and he broke into a moderate trot, stopping here and there to sniff at trees and bushes.

He knew most of the blood was from the other human, he had seen the fight, had watched him go down under that unexpected, fierce attack of sharp claws. The younger one had never stood a chance against his opponent, had been too dazed and shocked by the sudden display of brutal violence thrown at him. It had been quick, and it had been fatal. It was almost over before it had even begun.

And he knew the fallen one was dear to _him_, a loved one, a brother; if he found one of them, the other wouldn't be far away; they were close, very close. That was why he wasn't in any particular hurry; _he_ wouldn't be getting away from him. Soon their paths would cross.

He was looking forward to it.

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	3. We walk amongst you

Thanks to** Twinny** for being so patient with me this time, I don't think I would have posted it if you had not taken the time to help me. -hugs-

This is dedicated to Nito, my beloved dog and best friend for twelve long, wonderful years. There aren't words in this or any other language to describe how much I miss you.

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_**We walk amongst you**_

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"_We know a little about a lot of things; just enough to make us dangerous."_

Dean Winchester, 'Crossroads Blues'

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Sam was really starting to dislike dogs.

He didn't think they were unlikeable animals as such, he honestly didn't know enough about them to form a valid, well-grounded opinion about that but of all the supernatural creatures out there, it mostly seemed to be dogs which reminded people that there were things out there which went bump in the night; there were _black dogs_, _fairy dogs_, _church grims_ or _hell hounds_ to chose from, and all of them derived from the same species. Well, technically speaking. He had yet to see someone getting all excited and worked up over a black bird sighting or something as ridiculous as a hell _cow_ (which certainly would scare _him_ a lot more than the ordinary hell hound), so dogs as such didn't rank very high on his own private list of "things Sam Winchester couldn't live without".

Rice was an exception though but mostly because he was Bobby's new dog and still pretty much no more than a puppy with comically big paws, long legs that didn't want to go where the rest of the body went and an attitude that had even poor, animal-loving Bobby growl at him from time to time, especially when he was working on housebreaking him. Just like his predecessor, Rice was a Rottweiler, a rather massive, powerfully built dog with a protective streak that Bobby found perfect for his junkyard, a guard who would, even without having been trained properly yet, keep his property free of rats and other rodents; not to mention bark at about everybody who passed by the fence, then wag his tail at them crazily and beg to be patted.

Stupid dog, stupid, dumb, carefree puppy.

Sam picked up another branch and listlessly threw it across the courtyard, wincing and cursing under his breath when even that simple movement pulled at his stitches. God, he was so tired of hurting, of feeling helpless and way too dependent on other people. Oh, the bruises and scratches were healing just fine, and he should probably be grateful that he was already out of bed and capable of moving around for longer periods of time. And yet, it was just another mandatory break he didn't want, another way for the universe to turn his life into a miserable parody of "normal and carefree".

"_Sam, promise me, when I…. when it… _promise_ me!"_

The stitches pulled again as he winced, shoving the memory into the back of his mind. He wasn't going there, not now, not ever, Bobby would find a way. He had to.

Sam gave a small, tired sigh and turned his head slightly to look at the house. It looked peaceful from the outside, just as calm and at ease as it would appear to any passerby that happened to come along. And still, it was everything but the safe haven it used to be. The tension between the three of them was so palpable that he had to get out of there, had to leave the suffocating silence behind and get a few deep breaths of fresh air. He had no actual memory of how he had been able to make it outside without going down due to the strange laws of physics, especially gravity, which seemed to control reality around _Singer's Salvage Yard_ today. And he had thought that shrugging into that friggin' hoodie had actually been the worst experience of the day; if Bobby had not lent him a hand, he would probably still be sitting at the foot of his bed, trying to figure out how to get dressed.

It hurt. Every time he moved, every time he so much as breathed a little deeper, the seemingly soft material would chafe against his oversensitive skin, making him hold that breath reflexively and causing his stitches to stretch uncomfortably, leaving him hissing in pain; which only set the vicious circle off again. And that was just breathing a little more than he should have, walking, or actually hobbling down the stairs and outside had him curse his entire family for his existence. Yeah, he _did_ know he wasn't supposed to be moving at all, not so shortly after he had been injured so badly, but since there wasn't anybody to hold him back, he simply had taken advantage of the situation and slipped out.

A move he was admittedly starting to regret more and more with every passing minute.

In favour of his wounds, he barely stopped himself from heaving a deep, tired sigh and found himself thinking back to the night before, when he had woken from some weird dreams to familiar voices arguing with each other. At first he hadn't been able to make out individual words but after some time they had penetrated the fog that had taken residence in his mind, gradually pulling him out of his sleep.

"… _the hell were you thinking?!" That was Bobby all right, sounding slightly louder than usual and kind of… upset?_

"_Bobby, listen, I know you're pissed at me, okay, we --- _I _should have told you ---" Dean! Dean was back, yelling at… Bobby? Why?_

"_You ain't seen me pissed yet, Dean; I'm this close to kick your ass!"_

"_Bobby --- "_

"_How could you do this? How could you ask him that?" _

_There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Dean spoke, sounding genuinely confused, "What?"_

"_How could you ask him to shoot you? You have any idea what that did to your brother?"_

_Sam felt as if he had been sucker-punched by those words, he tensed immediately and fought hard to keep back a pained groan as his muscles cramped up on him, stealing his breath away. How did Bobby know about… that? Who had told him ---_

_Crap._

_He lost track for a moment when reality seemed to black out on him and he forced himself to calm down, passing out wouldn't do any of them any good, he needed to get up, get between them before they said things they didn't mean, before Bobby could drive Dean away, before ---_

"… _Dean, the second something like this happens, you call me. You know I'm practically answer-man for everything supernatural; there's always a way out!"_

"_Bobby, I'm sorry, I really am. I thought --- "_

"_What? That I'd push you away? I'm not your father, Dean!"_

_The room was doing that dancing-around-him thing again and he fell back against the pillows, no longer trying to get up and between them. Dean's words were too soft for him to make out and whatever Bobby answered to that, got lost in strange hissing noises all around him. The last thought that followed him into the darkness was the realization that he was actually really happy Bobby was not their _father_ but a friend because ---_

Pushing back those memories he ran a tired hand through his hair then slowly got up from the rusty metal crate he had been squatting on, swaying for a moment as vertigo once again attacked his senses and turned the world upside down. God, he hated it. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he let himself get used to the new position and then blinked about, watching how Rice bounced over to him, enthusiastically wagging his tail at him as he hopped and danced around him. Again the big klutz stumbled over his oversized paws but he didn't seem to mind; if possible, his excited panting and whining got even more frantic when he realized he had an audience.

"No, leave me alone; go find some mice to play with…" he growled under his breath and turned back to the house. Rice yipped in agreement and started to dash along the yard, heading straight for some bushes. Sam gave a small sigh and slowly hobbled across the junkyard, his eyes darting over to the Impala for a moment. It was parked right next to the porch, covered in a thin layer of dust and street dirt but otherwise just fine, a striking contrast to its owner.

Rice's sudden bark pulled him out of his thoughts and he turned to see the pup trotting toward the exit of the yard, then rounding a corner to disappear with a last happy wag of his tail. Great.

"Rice, get back here!" he yelled after the dog, hoping against hope that Rice's non-existent training would kick in and spare him the long way across the yard to get that stupid idiot back onto the home turf. He wasn't really surprised when he didn't elicit a reaction at all. "Rice!"

He turned on his heels and followed the wayward puppy outside, grumbling under his breath about how he would put him on a leash, so he would be spending the rest of his life chained to the bumper of one of Bobby's car wrecks if he didn't turn around right _now_, but Rice didn't listen; his enthusiastic barks echoed toward him across the small field that lay in front of Bobby's home.

"Crap…" Sam really wasn't looking forward to stumbling across the uneven ground; yet, he didn't have much of a choice, he needed to get that stupid son of a bitch back before its owner ripped him a new one. "Come on, get back here…"

Just then Rice's excitement turned up a notch, his happy barks turned into a frantic yipping-sound, the same one he let out when he found something incredibly fascinating like _another_ twig or a dead rabbit. Whatever it was, this time was hidden behind an old wreck. "Rice, if you don't get back here right _now_, I'll ask Bobby to give you another bath, you hear me?" Of course it was stupid, threatening a dog with reason, but he couldn't help it.

He rounded the wreck and was about to come up with another threat when he finally realized just _what_ exactly Rice was yapping and wagging at so happily that he could barely stay on his paws.

Sam froze.

At first he thought it was a dog, a German shepherd maybe, with a little too thin body and too long, graceful legs that ended in big, white paws. Its coat fur was rather dark, near black on its back and a dark-brown on the forehead. The lower part of the head and body were white and the long, bushy tail was moving slowly from side to side, as if it couldn't decide whether to wag at him or freeze on the spot. It was only when he finally saw two very attentive, very self-conscious, yellow eyes staring up at him without blinking that he finally realized that this was no dog but a wolf.

Rice was positively giddy with excitement, bouncing around the wild animal with huge leaps, happily yapping and whining away with enough volume to seriously damage his eardrums. He alternated between barking furiously and jumping at the wolf, pulling at its fur, the tail, even the ears with sharp puppy-teeth he knew from experience could leave painful scratches. The animal didn't seem to mind the rough treatment; it wagged its tail hesitantly, though its eyes never left Sam.

Sam tensed in alarm, feeling the hair at the back of his neck tingle with apprehension as he took in the scene in front of him, his hunter instincts kicking in immediately. He scanned his surroundings out of the corner of his eyes, his gaze never leaving the animal as he took in his position in regard to the entrance of the junkyard behind him. He could still make out the Impala, and he thought he was still within earshot of the house. If he yelled really, really loudly; which of course he wasn't going to.

But still, the situation was strange. He didn't know enough about the local wildlife of this state to know whether or not encountering wolves was common around here, but what he _did_ know about them was the fact that they were rather shy animals which wouldn't willingly get close to humans if it could be avoided. He eyed the wolf for a long moment, trying to assess its state of mind but he couldn't come up with anything other than that it was apparently not really bothered by the furry pain in the neck yanking at him from all sides but he had no idea how long it would keep that calm and relaxed and what exactly it was going to do if it decided it didn't like puppies at all.

He had to do something.

"Rice, come here!"

Yeah, well, he had not really believed it would work this time, the dog ignored him, only the furry ears twisting back briefly to him before pricking back to the lean wolf. Stupid, stupid puppy—

"Hello, young one."

The low voice virtually came out of nowhere and Sam whirled around so fast he couldn't stop himself from crying out in pain as his chest erupted in fire. The world tilted sideways and he blindly reached out for the car wreck next to him, trying desperately to stay upright. Time was lost to him for a long, agonizing moment until his eyesight cleared enough and he found himself kneeling in the dirt, one arm wrapped around his aching stomach while his other hand was propped up on the grass, keeping him from crashing face first onto the ground. His ears were ringing and he blinked repeatedly, fighting to focus on the blurry shape in front of him.

The stranger was tall, most likely even had a few inches on him. He wore a long, elegant, black coat, which hung open across his shoulders, revealing a dark shirt and equally dark trousers, reminding Sam of the typical villain in any action-movie. And yet, the kind smile on his lips seemed to belie his towering characteristics. Hands held out in front of him in a placating manner, he was obviously trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. Intense eyes lingered on Sam's face; they didn't reflect anything but curiosity and carefully guarded evaluation, assessing him. It made the hair on the back of his neck stand up and Sam couldn't help but stare back, couldn't stop himself from raising his chin defiantly, completely surprised and overwhelmed by the strong feeling that he did not want to back down, did not want to appear helpless or hurt in front of that man; which was completely ridiculous since he was already down on all fours in front of him ---

A low growl reminded him of the wolf, which was now somewhere to his right side, and he tensed, not daring to take his eyes off the stranger as he tried to pinpoint the wolf's location out of the corner of his eyes. He struggled to keep track of his surroundings and analyze the situation to figure out how to get the upper hand. At the stranger moving his hand, Sam backed off, then frowned when the growl stopped all of a sudden and the wolf's head lowered in submission to the man, though the yellow eyes still followed each and every of Sam's movements.

"There is no reason to feel threatened by my presence; I do not wish to harm you."

The stranger's voice was still soft, soothing, and for one split-second Sam felt as if he was being calmed down like a frightened animal. He grunted in response and glared at the intruder, fixing him with a challenging stare.

"Who are you?" He hated how the question came out a lot breathier and weaker than he had planned but the man just looked back at him, slowly dropping his hands to his side as he studied Sam for a second. He seemed to consider what exactly to tell him, and his significant pause fed the growing unease in Sam's stomach. Whatever the answer was, he was almost sure he wouldn't like it.

He was right.

"I am what you would call a werewolf."

It didn't even surprise him; he had _known_ that there was something off about that guy; and yet, he couldn't quite hide the alarmed look that crossed his face, and he tensed even more, one hand automatically going to where his knife would be sheathed on… his… ankle—_crap_. It wasn't there; they must have removed it when they were patching him up and changing his clothes. Great! So he was unarmed, facing a friggin' werewolf, barely able to see straight or take a decent breath, a wolf was in his back, and nobody knew he was out here. Terrific!

Sam deliberately put on a neutral expression, contemplating how to get back to his feet without giving away just how hard it was to move at all. He studied the werewolf for any signs of aggressive behaviour toward him as he slowly pulled his body into a kneeling position, biting back a pained groan that had his heart speed up for a moment. Fuuuck that hurt…

The stranger cocked his head to the side. "Can I be of assistance?"

It actually took him a second to understand the words through the pounding in his ears, and he shook his head, mentally counting to three and then pulling himself up in one probably not-half-as-graceful-as-he-would-have-liked move, swaying slightly for a moment until the world stopped spinning. "No, I'm fine…" he gasped, taking a step back and leaning against the wreck. "What do you want?"

"I know about your brother."

Sam froze, gaze involuntarily darting back to the house before he could stop himself. How much worse could this get? "What about him?" He needed to get back to Dean. If some werewolf had found him outside the house, there could as well be more of them trying to get to him. He needed to warn him—

"I know what happened to him in that forest; I know about his… _situation_."

_Don't show him that you're nervous__; don't let them see your worry for him; don't let Dean become your weak spot. _He could almost hear his father's voice at the back of his mind, and he crossed his arms in frond of his chest, glaring at the man as calmly as he could. "I don't know what you're talking about."

They both knew he was lying, and the stranger didn't even pretend to believe him. He simply nodded slowly. "I can help him."

"Help him? How? There's no cure or anything; you can't make it undone!" The angry words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself, frustration about the situation, the consequences, the never-ending feeling of helplessness forcing them out, and he found himself shouting at the stranger, glaring at him accusingly as if he was responsible for that fucked up _situation_. Next to him the wolf suddenly snarled in his direction, ears flat against its head, which was bent low as it locked its glowing eyes on Sam's throat, its lithe body tensing as if it was ready to jump, forcing Sam to acknowledge its presence and turn his body halfway toward the creature to protect himself.

A hiss and a sharp movement from the man, and the next thing Sam saw was the animal flat on its belly, tail tugged in between its legs and head pressed tightly against the ground. Low, whimpering sounds were coming out of its muzzle as it crawled towards the stranger with its stomach pressed against the ground, eyes now fixed on an outstretched arm. The man pointed at some spot behind him and growled something under his breath and the wolf, which seemed much more like a trained dog at the moment, scurried over and remained there, not moving a muscle. Then the man's eyes were back on him and he cocked his head slightly.

"You have to excuse him; he is still young and tends to be rather overprotective."

Eyeing the wolf with unease, Sam focused on the stranger again, not really sure how to react or if he even wanted to say something. The nervous feeling in his stomach just didn't want to go away. "What did you mean you--- how can you--- why would you help him?"

"Why would I not?" He seemed genuinely confused by Sam's mistrust, as if he had never actually considered that Sam would doubt his intentions.

Which in fact only made him all the more suspicious.

"Why would you help a stranger? You don't know him."

The man stared at him for a moment, then cocked his head to the side, studying him. "Tell me something, hunter, has your brother taken a life yet?"

Sam was so surprised about those words, he actually took a step back. "What do you—how do you..."

Another of those funny looks and he was interrupted. "My apologies for my choice of words. What I meant to ask was, has your brother given in to his… instincts and tried to kill, so he could devour the essence—the heart of a human being?"

Sam gawked. Sputtered. Stared. Finally found his voice and hurried to reply, "_What?_ No, no of course he hasn't—"

Again he didn't get to finish his sentence. "Then this is my answer, I would help him because he has not killed."

Huh.

Damn, that guy was giving him a headache. "I don't understand—"

A slight nod. "You cannot understand and I do not blame you. But it is as simple as that, I am here to help your brother because he has not killed and because I can help him live his life as one of us."

"One of u—of you?"

"Yes, hunter, one of us."

Sam actually couldn't form a sentence; the ability to talk had completely deserted him for a moment as he tried to understand what he had just heard, when he finally realized just what exactly the man had said earlier. _Hunter?_ That man, that _werewolf_ knew who he was? Shit. Dean, he needed to get to him, needed to warn him, to do… something.

And still he found himself rooted to the spot, wouldn't—_couldn't?_ move. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so much information he wanted—_needed_ to know but all he managed to choke out after what seemed an eternity to him, was a very weak copy of his own voice and the first thing that came to his mind. "Why did you come to me?"

The stranger didn't lose a beat, he answered immediately, as if he knew he would be asked this question. "Because you can be a voice of reason for him; you can make him listen to what I have got to say. I have only seen him for a brief period of time but I can tell that he will not listen to me if I tell him what I know about him."

'Not listen' had to be the understatement of the year; Sam doubted that the stranger would even get a sentence out if he approached his brother like he had talked to him. He studied the unfamiliar face again, searching for any signs that the other was lying or trying to set him up in any way. He had always thought of himself as a fairly good judge of character. When Dean said he could read people and knew what they would do, Sam had always thought of himself being able to _feel_ them, a hunch, more like a tingling in his guts when somebody was lying or trying to hide something, could always tell if a laugh was nervous or true. Until he had met Missouri, he had been very reluctant to acknowledge this ability but after what had happened in their home and the psychic's reassurance that he wasn't imagining things, it had become easier to trust himself.

Yet, this man was different from everybody he had ever met so far. It almost seemed as if the universal body language most people used without being aware of it, didn't apply to him. Whenever Sam wanted to appear likeable and trustworthy to victims they had to interview to get information about a case, he would always hunch his shoulders, hide his hands in his pockets and duck his head to appear less threatening. This man didn't stick to the rules so to speak; he stood tall and self-confident, very well aware of his height and definitely using it to loom over him. And the funny thing was, he didn't feel threatened or anxious at all, at least not by his presence. It was his self-perseverance, his hunter's instincts which insisted that because he was a werewolf, he had to be dangerous and couldn't be trusted.

His unease grew and yet, at the same time, a small feeling of hope started to sneak its way into his mind, maybe, just maybe…

"I must go now, hunter, others need me."

Sam's brain seemed to be frozen, he heard the words but couldn't process them. He didn't even know what exactly had shut him down mentally but he just watched how the stranger turned and started walking. The wolf rose when he passed him and fell into step beside him, head held low but his ears trained attentively on his companion. They had walked for a few steps when Sam finally found his voice again.

"Hey, wait!"

The stranger stopped and turned back, cocking his head slightly. "Yes?"

Sam took a step forward, stopped, then hesitated. "What should I—how can I let you know if he wants to talk to you?"

The stranger's lips curved into the beginning of a friendly smile. "I will know; I will find you."

With that he turned away and started walking again, leaving Sam staring at his back in confusion. He should hold him back, should ask him all those questions that were screaming inside his head, begging for his attention.

_Could Dean really__ learn to live like this? Not just get by day by day and survive, but live? How could he have known they were hunters? What else did the man know about them? How would he know if Dean wanted to talk to him? Why would he want to help them in the first place?_

_How was he going to tell Dean about this?_

He should have stopped him. And yet, he let him walk away, watching how the tall figure disappeared between a few trees at the other end of the field.

And only when the stranger was completely gone from his view, did he realize that he had never asked for a name.

******************************


End file.
